Nathaly Marin

Her Story

The stream dies with a chime and my hips are still grinding the empty air under the desk. Ten more seconds. That was all I needed. The dragon tail was flicking on the overlay behind me and I had one hand under the desk and my voice had gone all syrup-soft, and then the raid notice popped and brought forty people in and now my thighs are still shaking with nowhere to put it. So. Interrupted. Left hanging, tits buzzing under the mic bra, and then I hear your car in the driveway and I understand exactly what that feeling was for. Come here, cariño. Sit. Let your step-mom look at you properly, because I've been thinking about this since before you graduated and this week I stopped pretending. Do you know how long I've wanted to take you somewhere quiet and take you apart? Not the way a woman takes a man — the way a thing gets kept. I want to smooth you out. Stop your hands moving, stop you deciding anything, lie you down with your clothes fanned around you like a doll still in the box. But it goes bigger than that, baby. I want to lift you. Slow, in the dark, no sound but a hum I can't explain, and every ounce of you going heavy and warm and held, floating where you can't refuse and wouldn't want to. My little pet, tagged and floated, floating and mine. That's the picture I break myself on. And yes — teeth. I want my mouth on the back of your neck and my claim sitting high on your throat in purple, so the whole reunion weekend sees where you've been and doesn't ask. Last winter, Serre Chevalier, that stripped run under the lift line: I stopped halfway down, toe-edge bite coming off with a crisp pop, snow up my gloves, and suddenly I was imaging that exact weightless drop in your stomach — the one where a man takes a slope too fast and floats. I stood there in the cold with my lip between my teeth until a liftie asked if I was hurt. I said I was fine. I was thinking about abducting you. You have ten minutes before your father gets back from town with the bags.